Guilty Pleasure
by rebecca-in-blue
Summary: "You have to take what you can get with Erik. You have to hide terms of endearment in your tea." One-shots of Charles and Erik, now with a fluffy chapter two.
1. Guilty Pleasure

This piece has been idling on the back-burner of my brain for months, so I decided to go ahead and write it. I originally meant it to be part of a multi-chapter story of Cherik one-shots, set while they're all at the mansion in _First Class_. But I never got around to writing any other chapters, and I can't promise that I ever will. Maybe someday. In the meantime, I hope y'all enjoy this. My experiment in writing in second-person.

For my own reference: 108th fanfiction, 11th story for _X-Men_ , entry for Day 7 of Caesar's Palace 2016 Shipping Week.

* * *

You love Erik, but he isn't exactly _easy_ to love. If you so much as put your hand on his arm, he pulls away from you. He pulls away from even the slightest gesture of affection. And if you ever try to touch him in front of Moira or the kids, he glares daggers at you and becomes even more distant than usual for the rest of the day.

It's almost pathetic, really, how much you look forward to every evening, when Erik makes tea. He drinks black coffee every morning and tea every evening. After training is over, after dinner, he boils water and brews tea in a cup — he never bothers making a whole kettle of it, since you and he are the only tea-drinkers in the mansion — and he always makes a cup for you, too.

"Charles, I'm making some tea. What kind do you want?" he always calls, and every evening, you answer, "Lemon honey." You dread the evening when he makes you a cup of lemon honey tea without asking what flavor you want, but thankfully, it doesn't come.

You don't really care for lemon honey tea. You prefer earl grey. But you do love _saying_ it. How sweet those words taste, how deliciously they roll off your tongue whenever you say them to Erik. _Lemon, honey_ , you hear in your head, and it's like you're calling him _honey_ — like you're calling him _honey_ right in front of Moira and the kids and everybody.

You have to take what you can get with Erik. You have to hide terms of endearment within your tea.

You hate to admit it, but your heart is the tiniest bit glad for those nights when Erik has a nightmare. You're glad for the way he turns to you in bed after he startles awake, the sweet way he clings to you and lets you hold him.

You've been intimate with him in other ways, of course. You have sex with him, but Erik always wants to get right to the point during sex. He never wants to make it last longer, like you do. You could go for hours, or even all night long, just kissing him and touching him — but even when you're in bed together, Erik doesn't have any time for tenderness or romance.

Which is why you almost look forward to those nights when he thrashes around and startles awake at 2 am. He never wakes up screaming or crying — he doesn't have any time for melodrama, either — but he does wake up shaking and scared. You love it when he curls up against your chest like a child. You're grateful that the darkness hides your smile as you get to run your fingers through his hair and cup the back of his head.

"You're safe now, Erik, you're here with me now," you whisper over and over in your calmest voice, as you gather him to you, rubbing your hands up and down his arms and back, stroking his cheek until he falls asleep again. You touch him as much as you can in those short, precious, late-night moments, because when else would ever get the chance to? When else would Erik ever admit that he wants or needs to be soothed like this? Even after he goes back to sleep, you lie awake beside him for a long time, listening to him breathe, just so you can keep on stroking his cheek.

But the next morning, Erik is always his serious, distant self again. There's never any trace at all of the broken man who trembled in your arms in the night.

Then came the night when you actually saw inside Erik's head during his nightmare. You didn't mean to. Perhaps Erik's nightmare was so vivid that he projected it, or perhaps your sleeping mind wandered over into his. Either way, that night, _you_ were the one tied down to the operating table. The metal was cold against your back, and you struggled helplessly against the too-tight straps over your chest and waist and legs. The smells of alcohol and chloroform were so sickening that you almost gagged, and they got even stronger when Herr Doktor moved into your line of vision, wearing a clean white apron over his scrubs. You couldn't stop the hot tears when he leaned over you and started tightening the vice against your temples, to keep your head still, and when he heard you crying, he chided, "Now, Erik, let's not make it harder than it has to be." You could understand him, somehow, even though he was speaking German.

You woke up, thank God, before it could get any worse.

Your stomach pitched when you woke up, as if you were about to vomit. You were sweating and your heart was racing, still full of fear over what Herr Doktor was about to do. But Erik startled awake around the same time you did, and you forced yourself to be calm for him, like always. "Erik, you're all right now," you said reflexively, drawing him close. Your back still held the cold touch of Herr Doktor's operating table, but Erik was warm and reassuring in your arms.

No wonder he always clings to you like this after a nightmare.

You held him and stroked his head and arms and back with the softest touches you could muster, but as soon as he was asleep again, the worst feeling of self-loathing washed over you. You slowly, carefully untangled yourself from Erik and sat up in bed, brooding and hanging your head. Erik is reliving horrors in his nightmares. Unspeakable things. You shouldn't be _glad_ when this happens. You shouldn't _enjoy_ getting to be close to him if it comes at this cost.

Yet, when Erik has another nightmare a few weeks later, and you get to gather him close again, you can't help smiling in the dark. You try to ignore how Erik's body trembles under your hands, and you don't let yourself think about what horrific things he's just seen. And you can't deny that you _do_ enjoy this. You can't deny that it's your guilty pleasure.


	2. Late Dinner

Wow, I actually wrote another chapter. The second-person narration was a lot harder this time. To make up for the angst of the first chapter, this one is fluffy. It was inspired by a photo of Ian McKellen cooking dinner for Patrick Stewart. I thought, how cute would it be to see Erik cooking dinner for Charles?

* * *

You rub your eyes and sway on your feet a bit as you emerge from Cerebro and start upstairs. You're tired, but it's a peaceful, contented tired; you've never spent so much time in Cerebro at once, and it's incredible to think about how many minds you just touched, how many new mutants are still out there.

You're not bothered by how quiet the mansion is when you emerge on the first floor. You lost track of the time in Cerebro, but you know that you missed dinner, and now the kids must be upstairs watching TV, or maybe even getting ready for bed. You're curious when you smell something strong and spicy in the kitchen. Whose turn was it to cook dinner tonight? The kids, typical teenagers, always ate like a ravenous horde, but Raven must've made sure that they saved you some leftovers. You smile as you push open the kitchen door, and you're surprised to find Erik standing at the stove, still cooking.

"Erik?"

He glances over his shoulder at you and smirks. "Well, look who it is - finally," he says, with a hint of teasing in his voice.

You pause for a second. Erik's good mood takes you by surprise, but you quickly decide to act like you don't notice it.

"I wasn't in Cerebro for so long, was I?" you ask, yawning, as you cross the kitchen to him. You can smell tomatoes and spices in his skillet, and your stomach growls hungrily. "What time is it?"

"It's after midnight, Charles."

Your eyes widen. "What? No, it's not... is it?" But the clock on the kitchen counter confirms it for you. 12:17. You rub your eyes again, a bit unsettled. You would've guessed ten at the _latest_. No wonder the mansion is so quiet.

You scold yourself mentally. Losing track of the time will be one of the drawbacks of having free access to Cerebro. This new Cerebro, in the lower levels of the mansion, was only completed a few days ago. Hank designed it and Erik built it - and _did_ he look sexy when he got sweaty - so you wouldn't have to use the one at the CIA headquarters anymore.

"I wanted to knock on the entrance and tell you what time it was," Erik says, interrupting your thoughts, "but Raven wanted to let you stay in there late, just for tonight. She made nachos and brownies for dinner."

"She _knows_ I hate it when she eats junk food for dinner! I'm always telling her..."

But you stop when Erik gives one of his rare smiles. The kitchen is dim - Erik has left only the light over the stove on - but when he smiles, you swear the room grows brighter.

"She said that. She said that's why she wanted to... _pig out_ , I believe were her exact words, tonight, when you weren't around to lecture her. Oh, and she wants me to build some sort of timer inside Cerebro. Something to stop you from spending too much time in there in the future."

You love to imagine Erik and Raven having a conversation about you behind your back. They're practically acting like _in-laws_. But you don't want to smile and scare away Erik's good mood, so you just rub your neck, stiff from wearing Cerebro's helmet for so long, and admit, "Yes, it probably isn't good for me."

"And neither is skipping dinner," Erik adds, in his usual brusque manner again. "I told Raven I would make sure you ate something when you got out of Cerebro. This should be ready in a minute." A metal spoon rises up from the counter, dips itself in the tomato sauce, and goes to Erik's lips. He tastes it and adjusts the temperature.

Now you can't help smiling. Erik is _cooking you dinner_. You're so happy to see him doing something so normal - and doing it for _you_ \- that you decide to push your luck. You lean against Erik's back, pressing the length of your body against his, and hook your chin over his shoulder. He doesn't react, just keeps cooking, but for once, he doesn't push you away, either. You know it's only because there's nobody else around, or even awake, to risk seeing you, but you'll take what you can get.

"So what are you cooking me?" you ask teasingly, your arms tightening around his waist.

Erik says some foreign word that sounds a bit like sneezing.

You blink and ask, "Sorry, what?"

" _Shakshuka_ ," Erik says slowly.

"Shakshuka," you repeat, and you crane over his shoulder to peer down into the skillet - peppers and poached eggs in tomato sauce. The hot, spicy steam is welcome on your face after the cool air in Cerebro.

"It's very popular in Israel," Erik adds abruptly, and _this_ gets your attention.

Everything you know about Erik's past comes from reading his mind in the water on the night you first met. He never volunteers information about himself, not even to you, but you know that his years in Israel were almost happy ones for him. He'd been proud to serve in the newly-formed Israeli Defense Forces, alongside so many other Shoah survivors. There he wasn't the only one with numbers tattooed on his arm.

With your body against his like this, you can feel every little movement - his breath, the shift of his muscles as he turns the heat off, to let the dish cool. You can tell that he's cooked it before.

"Is that where you learned to make it?" you ask.

But Erik just darts his eyes, his shoulders shrugging beneath your chin, and you know when to back off.

"It smells rather spicy," you say, changing the subject.

"Too much for your mild British mouth?" Erik asks, smiling again. Making him smile feels like winning a prize, and you keep a mental list of every time you've been able to do it. The last time it was your turn to cook dinner, you made everyone omelettes; you made Erik's with peppers and hot sauce, and he wolfed it down like it was candy, with a big smile on his face.

You can't imagine Erik pigging out on junk food with the kids, so he probably skipped dinner, too. You let go of him to take two plates and glasses out of the cabinet and pour water. He dishes the shakshuka onto your plates, giving you a slightly larger portion, and you eat standing up at the kitchen island. Erik would eat all his meals like this - alone, standing up - if you let him. He only sits down to dinner with the rest of you every night because you insist.

The shakshuka is spicier than you would like, but you're so hungry, and so touched that Erik cooked it for you, that you eat ravenously. After a few bites, your mouth adjusts, and the heat becomes less intense. Your chest and belly warm up pleasantly, rather than burn, and your cheeks flush. You could get used to this.

"This is really good, Erik," you tell him, licking a smear of tomato sauce off your finger. "You should make it again, next time it's your turn to cook dinner."

To your surprise, he agrees. "I could use milder peppers," he says, going to the sink to refill your water glass. "It might be easier on you."

You take another bite of shakshuka to hide your smile. It's an anomaly to see Erik in such a relaxed mood, and up so late. He's always been the early bird to your night owl. Your body is still on your schedule from Oxford, when you spent almost every night either up late studying or out late partying. But Erik's body is still on his schedule from the Israeli army. He gets up at dawn almost every morning - even if he just went back to sleep after a nightmare a few hours before - to go for a run around the grounds of the mansion, or even along the country roads outside the gates, beyond the reach of your mind.

When he gets up to go running, you like to roll over into the warm, rumpled spot on the sheets where he'd just been, and go back to sleep until the sun is high enough to cast shadows on the floor. Sometimes even the teenagers get up before you do. You snore on the Erik-scented sheets while outside, he runs through the early-morning mist as if something is chasing him.

Before you can think better of it, you blurt out, "Erik, you're up so late tonight, why don't you sleep in tomorrow?"

He frowns at this, as if you're trying to trick him, which is so typical of your self-punishing Erik that you almost laugh. But you almost cry too, because you know, deep down, that the reason Erik pushes himself so hard because he still blames himself for what happened in Auschwitz.

You put down your fork to put your hand on his arm. "Come on, Erik," you plead, "you stayed up till almost one just to cook dinner for me. You deserve to sleep in." _I'm tired of waking up without you,_ you add in your mind.

"I could never sleep as late as you do," he argues, shaking his head.

"Well, don't," you shrug. "I need to stop sleeping so late anyway. I'm setting a bad example for the kids. Maybe I can start getting up a little earlier, and you can start getting up a little later." Before he can argue, you hastily finish your last bite of shakshuka and gesture to your empty plate. "Look, you always tease me for having a mild British tongue, but I just ate this whole plate of spicy shakshuka, and it was really good. So you might like sleeping in."

He hesitates, then makes a motion between a shrug and a nod. "I suppose I could try it," he says softly, a tiny smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

You grin back at him, and when you lean up to kiss him, you can taste the spices on his lips. Even though you've just eaten dinner, you're suddenly ravenously hungry again.


End file.
